The adepts set to work at once, dismantling the department’s cogitators.
‘What the hell is this?’ Limbwall cried.
The marshals slammed him against a wall and began to beat him. Plyton rose from her seat slowly. Weapons were aimed at her.
The marshals were wearing the bright orange flame-badges of Interior Cases.
‘Stop it,’ Plyton said. ‘Stop hitting him.’
The visored marshals carried on punching and kicking Limbwall until he fell down on the floor, one optic unit cracked.
‘I want to know where in the name of the Emperor you find the authority to do this,’ Plyton said.
The door of Rickens’s office flew open and a large man strode out. Plyton recognised him immediately. Senior Magistratum Sankels, the head of the Interior Cases Division, the wing of the Magistratum that investigated the Magistratum itself.
Sankels turned and yelled back into Rickens’s office. ‘Today, you hear me? Today!’
Walking past Plyton, Sankels glared at her.
Then he was gone.
‘Maud?’ Rickens called from the door of his office. She hurried over to him, and he drew her inside and closed the door.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked.
Rickens looked pale, as if in shook, and sat down in his ornate cathedra. ‘Something,’ he said.
‘Sir?’
He looked up at her. ‘Maud,’ he said. ‘I’m going to hate myself for asking this, but did you knowingly break procedure when you investigated the Aulsman death?’
‘No, sir.’
‘I didn’t think so. You recorded every particular of your crime scene entry?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Every particular?’
‘By the book, sir. What’s going on?’
Rickens set his hands down on the console before him. His hands were shaking. ‘As of nine-twenty this morning, the Department of Special Crime was suspended pending investigation.’
‘What?’
‘Suspended. Interior Cases is taking over. There has been a submission that we have mishandled the Aulsman case. A lack of procedure. A cover-up.’
‘Not at all, sir…’
‘I know. I believe that, Maud. But Sankels has other ideas. We’ve been told to stand down, confined to domestic habs, while the investigation proceeds. Apparently there are strong links between our handling of the Aulsman death and the attempt on Chief Provost Trice’s life last night.’
‘Oh my Throne! They tried to kill him?’
‘Who?’
‘Sir, I have no idea! I heard rumours…’
‘The rumours were true. And here we stand. I need your shield and your weapon, Maud.’
‘What? Why?’
‘Because as of now you are relieved of duty. Interior Cases will want to question you. You are required to return to your hab and wait there until they come.’
‘I did nothing wrong!’
‘I know, Maud. But still…’
Plyton unhooked her token and unfastened her holster. She placed the shield and her weapon on Rickens’s desk.
‘Go home and wait,’ Rickens told her. ‘I’ll try to get this affair straight as best I can.’
THIRTEEN
IN ITS SLEEP, the Arethusa groaned gently. The layover at Eustis Majoris high anchor meant there was time to afford a general system shutdown and a proper overhaul. Inert and slumbering, the old ship settled, its superstructure groaning and creaking as the stresses of the voyage were soothed away by the unexpected rest.
Wandering the half-lit sub-tunnels and lower decks, Sholto Unwerth was pleasantly reassured by the creaking and sighing of the metal hulk around him. The sounds made him think of the ship as alive. Besides, he’d sent the twenty men of his crew ashore for relaxation at the harbour taverns, and total silence would have been unnerving.
Unwerth was assessing the general repair of the ship. Three small servitors clattered after him obediently. Two were basic maintenance units. The third carried a massive, leather-cased book in its upper limbs, supporting it open as if its arms were a lectern. The book was the Arethusa’s repair ledger. At every inspection point, Unwerth would make some observations then walk over to the book the servitor held for him. With an ink pen, Unwerth carefully added any work needed to the manifest list, which the crew would consult later as they rostered for repair duties. A simple data-slate would have done the job, but Unwerth had a particular devotion to the sheer material substance of paper.
The shipmaster’s penmanship, like the shipmaster himself, was small and intricate.
‘Sub-duct one-three-four-one, lower service deck, renew insulation on power trunking and replace digita valves two-six-two through two-six-nine,’ he murmured to himself as he wrote, timing the words to the speed of his pen, so they came out with an odd, halting cadence.
He screwed the lid back on the pen. ‘There. That is a sufficiency in this venue. Let us constitute ourselves to the next juncture.’ He set off. The three servitors twitched and abruptly rattled along in his wake. He stopped suddenly and examined part of the dingy hallway’s wall. ‘Oh dear. Bless me, no. That’s unacceptable. See, this formentable rustication?’
The three servitors cocked their metal skulls. ‘Rustication of this magnetism is unacceptable, as it underwhelms the integrated solidnessity of the vessel,’ Unwerth unscrewed his pen and made some more fastidious notes.
‘Lower service deck, treat rusticated wall patches with sealant. Also buff theresaid.’
They continued with their tour and entered the gloomy cave of the ship’s rear hold. It was a poor twilight in here, half the overhead lumins out of action (Unwerth noted this carefully). There was also some buckling to several of the deck plates. Unwerth had the two repair units hold up their photovoltaic lamps and aim the beams at the floor while he hunched down to inspect it.
There was another creak of metal, but Unwerth ignored it. He ran his fingers over the damaged deck-section and tutted quietly. Then something blocked out the light of the lamps.
‘Arise them gainfully, you defuncts!’ he called out. He was still in shadow.
‘You,’ said a voice. It was low, so very, very deep.
Sholto Unwerth turned and gazed up at the titanic figure behind him. He blinked. He knew all too well who this man was, and what line of business he was in.
‘I do not have a remembrance of inviting you aboard my ship, Master Worna,’ he said, trying and, for the most part, failing to keep the note of anxiety out of his voice.
‘That’s because you didn’t, Unwerth,’ replied Lucius Worna.
‘You know m-my name?’
‘Sholto Unwerth, shipmaster of the Arethusa. It’s my business to know facts like that. Particularly as I’ve been looking for you.’
‘L-looking? For me? W-why? Why? Why for have you been looking for me?’
‘Because we’re going to have a conversation.’
‘I have nothing to converse with you, sir. My lips are soiled.’
‘I heard you usually had plenty to say Unwerth. A babbler, that’s what I’ve heard. Plenty to say and ninety per cent of it crap. I’m interested in the ten per cent of sense you sometimes manage.’
Unwerth drew himself up to his full height – which put his eyes on a level with Worna’s navel – and said, ‘I would be most ingratuitous if you were kindly permissive and removed your personable from my ship.’
Lucius Worna turned casually and struck one of the repair servitors with the back of his hand. The force of the brutal slap sent the delicate machine tumbling across the deck, dented and cracked, sparks fizzling from torn hoses and servo-meshes. ‘A conversation,’ he rumbled. ‘End of story.’
WORNA TOOK THE shipmaster up to the small retiring lounge behind the bridge. En route, Unwerth saw other intruders aboard his ship, rough-looking crew-types, all of them armed with handguns. They were standing watch at hatches and junctions, ready to greet any of Unwerth’s own crew who came back. Several more were
on the bridge itself, searching through the database and the paper records.
Unwerth would have been bristling with outrage, if total fear hadn’t been eclipsing every other emotion and thought. He was not a brave man, and avoided confrontation at all costs. In a quiet life of trading, he’d never been boarded, never been attacked, and never had his life and welfare threatened so comprehensively.
He said nothing, just did what he was told. Worna indicated he should sit down on the leather bench built into the retiring cabin’s end wall.
Worna remained standing. The bounty hunter idly began to unclasp and remove the armoured gauntlets of his carapace armour, and set them on a side table. His big hands were as scarred and gnarled as his head.
‘You were at Bonner’s Reach, for Firetide.’
Unwerth shrugged, not sure if it was a question, and not at all certain he wanted to answer it if it was.
‘Then you came down the sub-lane during the course of the season, via Encage, Bostol, that route. And ended up here, six days ago.’
Unwerth shrugged again.
‘Good trip, was it? Good trade? You carry cargo?’
‘Some pulchritude of an amount. It has been a poor season.’
‘Gonna get worse yet,’ Worna said. ‘What about passengers?’
Unwerth said nothing.
Worna smiled. ‘You’re afraid of me, aren’t you?’
‘I cannot receive of a notion why I shouldn’t be.’
‘Damn right. I’m a scary man. And maybe that’s what’s gluing up your famous blabbermouth. Maybe you’d be happier talking to a kindred soul?’
Worna went to the cabin door and beckoned for someone. A red-haired man in a jacket of Vitrian glass entered the room.
‘Hello, Unwerth,’ he said. ‘You know who I am?’
Unwerth nodded. ‘Master Siskind of the Allure.’
‘Now don’t mind Lucius here. He’s working for me. Help me out, and I won’t pay him to damage you.’
‘I am most revived to hear so, Master Siskind. In what fashionable way can I help you?’
‘Let me start by apologising, Unwerth,’ Siskind said. ‘Boarding your ship like this, taking control. No master likes to be treated like that.’
‘Indeed not.’
‘But understand, until I get what I want, my men will remain in control. And any of your crew who tries to alter that fact will regret it. I’m looking for the Oktober Country, Unwerth. I’m looking for the Oktober Country and its master, Kizary Thekla.’
Unwerth cleared his throat. ‘Then you have importuned your radiation in the unrequisite direction, Master Siskind. I am not he, nor is he here, in manner of fact. When last I left my eyes on him, he was at the Reach, during Firetide.’
‘You saw him there?’ Siskind said, picking up an astrolabe from a shelf and toying with it.
‘In consideration, yes. I spoke at him. He was deferably present, as was Master Akunin, and other worthied eminencies of their cartel.’
‘All of whom had left the Reach by the time I put in,’ Siskind told Worna. He looked back at Unwerth. ‘What did you talk to Thekla about?’
‘I took a meeting with the beneficial master, and extravagated about mercantile dealings that might arise, perspicaciously, between our two selves.’
Siskind burst out laughing. ‘Unwerth, Unwerth… the cartel Thekla and Akunin belong to is out of my league, let alone yours. How do you deal with the shame, trying to broker deals with men like that? Throne, you’re a nothing. A nobody midget in a tramp ship.’
Blinking hard, Unwerth looked aside.
‘Listen to me, Unwerth,’ Siskind said. ‘I was supposed to meet Thekla at the Reach, but I was delayed. By the time I’d got there, he’d gone. Under normal circumstances, he would have left a message for me, but he didn’t. Naturally, I was worried. So I hired Master Worna to do some hunting around. Guess what he turned up?’
‘I have no ideology of that answer,’ Unwerth said.
‘Just after Firetide, a bulk lifter, registered – according to its transponder codes – to the Oktober Country, docked at Bonner’s Reach. Its occupants were not identified. In fact, the Vigilants’ records show the lifter’s occupants chose anonymity. But there’s one thing the records do show. Those people, whoever they were, took a private meeting with you. Shortly after, this heap of junk left the Reach and began its journey here.’
‘Who were those people?’ Worna asked.
‘I can’t quite reminisce…’ Unwerth began.
‘Don’t give me that!’ Siskind spat. ‘We saw the records. Facts, Unwerth. Don’t embarrass yourself with a lie. Either you met with Thekla, or with representatives of his ship, or you met with people who had somehow acquired a lifter belonging to the Oktober Country. Which was it?’
Sholto Unwerth, so small his feet swung off the bench seat and didn’t reach the ground, bravely shook his head.
‘You carried passengers on this run, didn’t you?’ Worna growled. ‘All the way from the Reach to Eustis.’
‘Just cargo,’ Unwerth said.
‘Ornales?’ Siskind called. Another man came into the cabin, and handed Siskind one of the Arethusa’s leather-bound manifests. Siskind skimmed through the pages to the last entry.
‘Here, in your own hand, Unwerth. Passage arranged from Bonner’s Reach to Eustis Majoris. Eight persons. Price agreed. No names recorded.’
Unwerth knew when lying was hopeless. ‘I was pertained by those persons to act as conveyance. They have quit the ship now.’
‘Who were they?’
‘Traders, I conceive. I asked no query of them.’
‘Come on, you little bastard!’
‘If I knew names,’ Unwerth blurted, ‘I would not obligate you with them! A shipmaster and his clients enrapture the principles of privatisation and confidence! As a master yourself, you know that!’
‘You know,’ grinned Siskind, handing the manifest back to his first officer, ‘I admire your professionalism, Unwerth, I really do. Client confidentiality. That’s something I try to uphold in every circumstance. But I’d waive the privilege like a shot if my ship was being held by force and I was in the same room as Lucius Worna. So… give me the damn names.’
‘No,’ said Unwerth.
‘All right, answer this. What do you know of a man named Gideon Ravenor?’
‘Nothing,’ said Sholto Unwerth flatly.
Siskind turned to Worna. ‘Your witness,’ he said.
Lucius Worna reached into a belt pouch and took something out that began to chitter and vibrate.
‘Know what a cisor is?’ he asked.
Unwerth shook his head and slowly shrank back into the couch until he could go no further.
‘Well,’ said Worna. ‘You’re going to find out. Unless you answer the questions. Do you know Gideon Ravenor?’
‘Yes,’ said Unwerth.
‘He was your passenger? Him and his team?’
‘Yes,’ Unwerth said in a tiny, tiny voice.
‘Now we’re getting somewhere. What happened to Thekla and his ship?’
‘I don’t know! In absolution, I do not! They did not tell me!’
‘Maybe they didn’t. All right, here’s another. Where is Ravenor and his crew now?’
‘I don’t know. On the surface. That’s all I can explicate, to the best margin of my knowing.’
‘On the surface. Uh huh. And how do you contact them?’
‘I don’t! Our arrangementage is finished!’
‘You must know where they are, what they’re doing?’
‘I applore you, I don’t! They made a special immensity of not telling me the pertinence of their business! They said I shouldn’t know for the good of my health!’
Lucius Worna slowly raised the sawing cisor.
‘How wrong they were,’ he said.
FOURTEEN
PIECE BY PIECE, Carl Thonius was extracting the secrets of Tchaikov’s riddle box. He’d been deciphering for two days. He wrote every scrap of
data down on index cards and soft-gummed them to the wall of the east bedroom, rearranging them as more details fitted in. The entire wall was speckled with cards. Every once in a while Carl went to his cogitators, and checked a fact via his link to the Informium, or ran details through his arithmometer.
The sheer scale of the Contract Thirteen operation was becoming evident. It had been going on for years. I had suspected that thousands of tainted devices had been smuggled into Petropolis, but the actual figure was currently close to five million.
Five million! If that were true, vast substrates of the Administratum in the hive were currently using warp-infected engines on a daily basis. And the Contract Thirteen cartel had become very rich indeed. It was evident from the funds Tchaikov had been laundering for them. The Contract itself had paid out well, regularly, and it had been fearsomely supplemented by the trade in flects.
The foolish trade in flects. The greedy side-order they hadn’t been able to resist, the very reason I had discovered their vile dealings in the first place. Their own greed had betrayed them.
I was still troubled by the deeper connections. The vein of Cogitae that ran through the players in this game. Thekla, Tchaikov, Siskind, though I didn’t think that last fool was a player any more. Trice intrigued me, given his power and status, and Carl had been unable to draw up any background on the man. But I knew he employed powerful psykers. Kinsky, for one, and the unidentified fellow at the diplomatic palace. Then, of course, there had been the assassination attempt itself. Trice had other enemies. Enemies who could conjure an incunabula. My gut feeling was the Divine Fratery. Carl’s initial findings showed they had cells operating on Eustis. That made me especially wary.
I was locked into their future predictions, their prospects. If they were attacking Trice, that meant my struggle with the cartel was somehow interfering with the fearful event that they were so keen to see happen.
So many pieces, like a vast game of regicide. At the centre of it all, I worried, was the mysterious, prophesied figure known as Slyte. The Divine Fratery’s messiah. What was he, what was it?
Zael’s true name was Sleet. He was a mirror farseer, and so, by Eisenhorn’s definition, especially luminous to the fraters. Had I really been so gullible as to accept a daemon into my midst? Was my sympathy for Zael my undoing, and the undoing of a subsector besides?